Winter hated the desert.

He hated the sun, the way it poured down like molten gold and glared off every surface, the thin dry air that burned his throat when he breathed too deeply, and worst of all—the fact that the heat sank through his scales, leeching the cold from his bones. His wings dragged faint furrows in the sand with every stride, talons cutting deep with each tense step.

Ridiculous assignment, he thought bitterly. Diplomatic escort duty—him. As if his claws weren’t better suited for real work.

Queen Snowfall had summoned him with clipped words and colder eyes: "You are to attend the summit at the Oasis Spire. Make sure we don’t look like fools in front of the SandWings or anyone else. Behave, Winter."

As though she thought he couldn’t.

As though his loyalty weren’t written in the marrow of his bones.

Now he was here, standing beneath a spindly strip of shade that the Oasis Spire provided only out of architectural mercy. The grand tower of sandstone stretched up into the bleached sky, banners of every tribe snapping high above. Inside, dragons bustled—ambassadors, merchants, soldiers. Dragons who spoke too loudly, smiled too broadly.

Winter exhaled through his nostrils and narrowed his eyes. Too much warmth. Too much noise. His tail flicked sharply against the sand.

He’d arrived early, of course—better to scout the space, understand the lay of the land before the summit began in earnest. Every diplomatic event was an elaborate battlefield beneath the surface. Here, clever smiles hid daggers, and casual words tested loyalty. He’d been trained for it since hatching.

He had not, however, been prepared to find himself paired with someone from another tribe for the opening ceremonies.

"A display of unity," the insipid announcement had gone. "Each delegation to pair an IceWing with another dragon."

Unity, Winter scoffed. Forced partnerships rarely bred anything but friction. He would do what was required—he always did—but no more.

A murmur of laughter echoed from the far end of the chamber. Winter turned sharply, ice-blue eyes narrowing.

Too many unfamiliar dragons already. His claws flexed. He was watching for any sign of his assigned counterpart—not that he expected much. Whoever it was would probably be another peacock, all colors and charm with little substance.

He would keep his distance. He would not be drawn into petty conversation. And above all, he would not let anyone beneath his skin.

Winter shifted his wings with practiced elegance and stood straighter, chin lifting. Whatever this summit demanded of him, he would meet it with cold precision. And if his partner proved as infuriating as he expected—well.

He could endure anything.

That was what being an IceWing meant.